Chapter Text
The life of one Bertram Wooster and his manservant Jeeves followed, for quite some time now, a familiar rhythm.
Even when everything threatened to set them apart, they found themselves back together, more often than not because of one of Jeeves’ schemes. He always found a way of saving the young master from the clutches of aunts and the like.
If you attempted to lift a piano into your flat during London’s busiest hour, it’d be bound to fall right on top one or two girls Bertie had nearly gotten married to, saved at the last moment by one of Jeeves’ best. It’s not as if the girls truly liked him, they despised the situation as much as him. It was overall a win-win situation for all parties involved, except for the aforementioned aunts and the like.
Anyhow, Bertie often wondered why the man, with such a large brain, stayed in his service. He finally got his answer not too long ago: “there is a tie that binds,” Jeeves had said. Bertie promptly answered with: “then heaven bless it, and may it continue to bind indefinitely.” Then, they went on about their lives.
Unbeknownst to them, that was the beginning, that was when the wind of change started to blow, ever so gently, on their not-so-humble abode.
But it was only a while later that things truly began shifting. The true harbingers of change were plopped down on a chair and promptly forgotten about. Hell, if Bertie had known the objects would produce the results they did, he would’ve brought them and a hundred similar articles into the flat.
They were in London at the present, fresh out of a trip to New York. That place has something, perhaps in the air or the water, Bertie wasn’t sure. Before he knew it, he stood outside of his American poet friend’s decrepit house with a few garments in his arms.
Now, he was no Jeeves, but even in his eyes the things were downright ghastly, needing to smell some of Aunt Dahlia’s salts right after seeing them ghastly, one could only imagine their effect on Jeeves! But that would be putting the carriage in front of the horses, we’ll get there.
The garments were gifts from Rocky’s doting aunt, who must’ve had her nephew’s best wishes in mind. However, her best wishes could do with some work, and, Rocky, the lazy so-and-so that he is, didn’t even bother getting to the rubbish bin outside, and instead deposited them on Bertie. Why? Why not? In the opinion of the masses, what’s Bertie for, if not to cater to their whims?
Bertie bundled the offending articles into his suitcase and didn’t spare them a second thought until they returned to London and Jeeves, upon taking notice of them, took three steps back and produced a most unJeevesian noise.
“Jeeves! What in the blazes happened?” Bertie ran to the bedroom. Surely, for such a reaction to be forced out of the man with the most sang froid in existence, something drastic must’ve occurred.
“Sir, I was in midst of unpacking when I came across these…” The man paled. “Articles of clothing.”
Bertie placed a hand on the man’s back and looked over his shoulder. Little physical touches such as these had become more frequent, now that he thought about it.
"Oh, yes, those,” he said casually. Jeeves shot him a glance. “They must’ve slipped my mind. Rocky—”
Jeeves gave one of his bovidae caprinae coughs. “You Intend to keep them, sir?”
Bertie felt a sudden fondness for the things, a protectiveness his most romantic pals go into detail when the lovelight resides in their eyes once again. Enough is enough, he decided. It is high time he put his foot down, Jeeves would not trample all over his virility again.
“Yes, I quite like them.” He turned to the man, folding his arms and overall looking the image of a man of iron will, in his mind at least. “Adore them even. Besides, I won’t have you pushing me around in the matter of…” Here he faltered.
The garments in question were undergarments, briefs, drawers, unmentionables, whichever term you prefer, in various shapes and colours in all their gruesome glory. Now that Jeeves held them between his forefinger and thumb, keeping them at a safe distance in case they bite, it all became too real.
Bertie’s face flushed. The naked truth was this: Jeeves was fussing over underwear.
His underwear.
The telephone rang and Bertie was left alone with the eyesores and the realisation that Jeeves’ garment pickiness was spreading to unexplored territory. This fetish of his, Bertie thought, and hoped he was employing the right word, had to end.
Jeeves apparated near the telephone, and after answering it and passing the apparatus to Bertie, calmly announced, “Mrs. Gregson, sir.”
Bertie nearly jumped out of his skin. Why the little—! He didn’t even give him time to prepare before he unleashed Aunt Agatha’s presence, corporeal or not, into the flat.
"Bertie...still the same spineless vertebrate as ever,” she drawled. “Elucidate me as to the reason why you hid away in New York for months.”
The obvious reason is because England is too small a country to live in amongst her.
“I... Well—”
“Bring Jeeves with you to Riverways. He will help a dear friend of mine and you will stay out of his way.”
“But, Aunt Agatha—”
“I have finally found a way to make something out of you.”
And, with these illusive words, and the grating noise telephones make when someone forcefully puts the receiver down, she hung up.
“Jeeves, I’m done for,” Bertie mumbled.
“Shall I start repacking everything, sir?”
“I suppose so, but first bring me some of the b. and g., will you?”
“Very good, sir.”
Bertie had an awful feeling. Aunt Agatha’s tone had a sickening ring to it, even more so than usual. He could already hear the threatening crescendo of wedding bells. Aunt Agatha was sure of something, that never bore anything good for him. Yet, this time he felt that whatever she had up her sleeve would require a plan even greater than those Jeeves’ brain had produced hitherto.
Jeeves was already in the hall, valises in hand, when Bertie called out to him, “It isn’t like you, but I’m afraid you’ve forgotten something.” To the undiscerning eye, Jeeves’ unperturbed visage remained unperturbed as he realised just what Bertie meant. In reality, two eyebrow hairs moved a fraction of a millimetre, sign of great internal suffering.
“I am afraid, sir, that the valises are full.”
“Oh, come now, Jeeves. You know I’m an expert at fitting things into suitcases when they’re full—you just shove them in and hope for the best.”
“They might crease, sir.”
Bertie fought off a smile. “That’s when the best ironer I know comes in.”
After a soupy “very good, sir”, the valises returned to earth and Bertie forced the articles on top of some flawlessly organised ties, then, they were off.
...
Bertie had never been to Riverways. Aunt Agatha had mentioned the place once or twice, it was where a friend of hers lived, a friend who had fallen on hard times after her husband passed away and left her to sustain their twin children alone. A high amount of pride could be sensed in Aunt Agatha’s voice when she explained that, despite everything, she remained her friend.
Now, why she wanted him there was beyond him.
Next thing he knew, he was waking up from a slumber he hadn’t felt coming. Ignoring the crick in his neck, he felt as if his head was at last posited in its rightful resting place. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and, as the fogginess of sleep evaporated, found himself resting against Jeeves’ shoulder.
“Oh, ah.” Bertie hastened to shift his body away. “My apologies, Jeeves.”
He turned to look at his silent companion. Through a just-woken-up haze, he was reminded of that wheeze photography aficionados harp on about—the golden hour. The setting sun bathed Jeeves in its yellow glow, it highlighted his chiselled features and the contrast between his white gloves and the warmth of his complexion. They were frequent these occasions, occasions when Bertie kicked himself for not carrying a Kodak with him everywhere he goes just to capture Jeeves in moments like this, to obtain photographic evidence of that magnetic pull that never failed to overpower him.
Jeeves’ voice snapped him back to reality. “We have reached our destination, sir.”
Bertie knew his Jeeveses by now, he couldn’t help but notice that the man looked tense. Gosh, did he drool on his shoulder?
“Sorry for the shoulder thing, Jeeves. You know how it goes when a fellow falls asleep.”
“Yes, sir.”
When he blinked, Jeeves was already out of the car, taking the valises out of the boot, and opening the door for him. Bertie had opened his mouth to speak when he noticed a figure looming in the distance.
“How many times have I told you not to let your mouth hang open like that, boy? You look brain dead enough as it is.”
The figure was none other than Aunt Agatha. Bertie’s blood ran cold, he felt like Jonathan Harker when he poked his head out of the window and saw Dracula slithering down the wall. Bertie couldn’t sleep after finishing that book, but Jeeves was kind enough to stand next to his bed until he fell asleep—he slept like baby Jesus in the hay that day.
Speaking of Jeeves, Aunt Agatha shifted her scorching gaze to him and her look was nothing short of contempt. A protective sort of feeling erupted in Bertie’s chest, it’s one thing to do it to him, it’s quite another to do it to Jeeves. “What bit you do this time, dear aunt?”
Aunt Agatha started to turn a vivid shade of red, so if Bertie ran and hid behind Jeeves’ broad shoulders, who could blame him? It seemed that the sight of that nearly popped one of the veins in her temples.
“Reggie!” A shrill faraway voice broke the air and with it came a short girl, a very pretty short girl in fact, propelling herself towards Jeeves. “I’ve missed you so!”
Jeeves cleared his throat and plied the girl off his corpus. “It is a pleasure to see you, Miss Popplewell, but, please, address me as Jeeves.”
“Oh, cut her some slack, will you?” An old lady came sliding out the house in a wheelchair pushed by a young blondish man. “You must remember how fond she was of you.”
“Mrs. Popplewell, Mr. Popplewell,” Jeeves said, bowing courteously.
Bertie felt a sudden dislike for the whole scene, much like what Aunt Agatha must feel whenever she claps her eye on Bertie unalerted. For him, the catalyst was whenever the girl batted her eyelashes at Jeeves. Now what bit him? He straightened himself to his full height in an effort to get himself together. He is, after all, a gentleman.
The pretty girl turned to him with a jovial smile, so he introduced himself, “Bertram Wooster, pleasure to meet you, and all that.”
“Yes... I’ve heard about you,” she said, with a mysterious tone in her voice. One doesn’t need Jeeves’ brain to deduce what she must’ve heard from Aunt Agatha.
Suddenly, rain started pitter-pattering on the mansion’s roof. A great shadow loomed over Bertie—Jeeves had produced an umbrella and was hovering it over him, but not himself. Everyone rushed into the mansion as the rain started to fall harder and faster.
“Jeeves, you got all wet!”
Jeeves didn’t react, he was too preoccupied with brushing away the few raindrops that had gotten onto Bertie’s suit.
“It’s really happening then,” the young man, most likely the son of the house, said, and turned a small radio on.
The room was filled with a reporter’s staticky tones, “...reports of a family of four injured as a tree fell abruptly on the road. Everyone must stay inside, I repeat, this storm is unlike anything we have seen in recent years, do not drive—”
The little old lady groaned. “Turn that blasted thing off.”
“Mama! The guests!”
“Bah, I’m too old to watch my language. Now, would anyone like a cup of steaming tea?”
The fireplace was roused to life and everyone more or less huddled around it while Jeeves served the tea.
“My dear Jeeves, you’ll catch a cold! Go on and have a change of clothes, we have some matters to discuss.”
“Very good, madam.”
The old lady’s voice was feeble, but she had a commanding aura, everyone in the room hung off her lips. “Mr. Wooster, as you must have noticed, Jeeves and this house are acquainted. Indeed, when he was just a lad in his twenties, he worked here as a valet, and quickly proved to be one of the very best that passed through this house, but, when my dear husband died, he had no choice but to leave, you see, there was no more need for—”
“Oh, what sad times those were.” Miss Popplewell sighed.
“...his services. As such, he went on his way, and, as I can see, became a fine manservant.”
“Oh, yes, the very best I can assure you. The man’s a marvel. Countless are the times he has gotten me out the soup. There was this one time when he taught this scoundrel of a swan a lesson it’d never forget, and that one time when—”
“Bertie, I’m sure you are perfectly capable of keeping all that drivel to yourself,” Aunt Agatha sneered.
The old lady went on unbothered, “as my condition deteriorates, I need more help. But my blasted son and daughter, Felix and Felicity, are too busy going to and fro in frivolous artistic endeavours.” She let out a ragged breath. “Artistic is too a big word for what they do, but moving on… where was I?”
“On how great Jeeves is,” the girl, Felicity, added, apparently unaware that the topic had changed.
“Right, my idiotic children. They can’t help me, now the butler went and got himself ill—” A coughing fit struck her.
Aunt Agatha came to her aid, “I thought of arranging for Jeeves to come and help.”
“You’ve always been a dear friend, Agatha.”
“It will be a pleasure, madam. If, of course, Mr. Wooster approves.” Jeeves’ voice sounded from behind Bertie’s shoulder, no one had noticed his return. Bertie felt himself relax, bless the man.
“I—”
“Of course he does. Do you not, my dear nephew?” Aunt Agatha said, placing her hand over his with a tight grip.
“Well—"
“It will be just like old times!” Felicity shrieked with delight; her brother poked her with his elbow.
Aunt Agatha, he noticed, had an odd smile on her face. Bertie shivered, a noose seemed to gently envelop his neck.
“No! I’m bloody well fine!”
A rat-faced man stumbled through the front door and face planted on the hearth rug.
Jeeves helped the man up. “Sir, you seem to be running a fever.”
He was soaked through, and, oddly enough, wore what seemed to be a hospital gown.
“Get yer ruddy hands off me! Do not replace me! And come hell or high water certainly not with him!”
“Oh, you silly pudding!” Felicity sat him down near the fireplace and placed a blanket around his shoulders. “Now, now, have a bit of tea, won’t you?” Curiously, the man’s face flushed even more under her dotage.
Turns out the man was the ill butler; he had come running from the hospital at the whisper that Jeeves was to replace him.
The house had one more visitor, one who knocked. The local constable passed through to say that the bridge connecting the few houses over the river to the main village was flooded. The sudden rain hit hard and fast and the river engulfed the bridge—there was no way of returning to civilisation. The butler had, as incredible as it might seem, swum a couple of miles to get to the house.
“This is just like one of those murder mystery books, what? Everyone stuck under the same roof, then, the stabbing begins.”
No one seemed to find Bertie’s gag funny, not even Bertie when he realised a critical aspect. “Oh, my giddy aunt,” he exclaimed. Then, in a whisper, said to Jeeves, “we’re stuck, trapped w-with Aunt Agatha!”
Jeeves didn’t answer, but his eyes seemed to say ‘indeed, sir’.
“Felicity, dear, get the man away from the fire, will you? The sensible thing would be to get him back to the hospital, but since that is impossible now, put him up in the room on the west wing.”
The man murmured a few words in thanks, along with some curses.
The old lady stopped in her tracks. “Bollocks!”
Aunt Agatha came to her side. “What is it, Penelope?”
“That means he will be occupying the room Jeeves was to stay in.”
Aunt Agatha scoffed. “I’m sure Jeeves won’t mind sleeping in some other place. The settee, for instance.”
“Excellent idea,” the son, Felix, added.
Felicity gasped. “The poor thing would freeze!”
“Bah! Then some blankets and such on the floor next to Pike’s bed would surely suffice.”
“That room’s so tiny,” Felicity argued, then shivered. “Besides, we’re not even sure what Pike's ailment is! We can’t have it spreading.”
“I believe I have found a satisfactory solution,” Jeeves announced.
The whole room turned to look at him.
“I will do as Mrs. Gregson suggests, but in a more logical place. Mr. Wooster’s room is to be the room on the east wing, if I am not mistaken, Mrs. Popplewell?”
The old lady assented with a nod.
“Then, if it is no trouble for Mr. Wooster…”
Bertie did the math in his head. Jeeves plus no place to sleep equals cold Jeeves, then, logically, Jeeves plus his room equals no stranded Jeeveses. Yet, the combination gave him pause. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the quality of the feelings that whirled about inside him then, but whirl around they did.
Still, stiff upper lip. “Why, of course, old thing, err… Jeeves, I mean. I'd be no bother at all.”
Aunt Agatha shot up from her seat in a manner not unlike a jack-in-the-box. However, she lost the opportunity to protest—Mrs. Popplewell clapped her hands together and declared, “it’s all sorted out then. My, look at the time! Dinner must be almost ready.”